Once A Masseuse, Always A Masseuse

Laney tells her girl to keep those eyes shut tight. She drops the towels right into Octavia's waiting hands and gives the okay. Octavia looks down, confused as hell. Two ordinary towels. That was the big reveal. Then she sees Laney in that skin-tight white uniform, buttons straining, skirt cut way too high. Massage therapist gone bad. "You've been grinding yourself into dust at work," Laney says, voice low. "Figured I'd put these old hands to use again. Get the knots out. All of them." Octavia's throat goes tight. Laney peels off her shirt, unclasps the bra, slides the panties down slow like she's unwrapping something expensive. Oil hits warm skin. Fingers press, roll, push deeper until every stiff muscle gives up its fight. Octavia moans into the towels. The strokes turn greedy. Laney's mouth follows her hands, tasting salt, breathing heat across slick thighs. Octavia twists, grabs at the uniform, rips buttons open. Their bodies lock, slip, grind. Oil and sweat mix while they take each other apart right there on the table, hungry and relentless, every thrust and lick burning off every leftover ounce of tension they started with.